


On The Side Of The Angels

by essexmermaid



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Endeavour Morse Needs a Hug, Gen, It's a Wonderful Life, Parental Fred Thursday, Protective Fred Thursday, ThursDAD, warning of contemplated suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:47:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24743347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/essexmermaid/pseuds/essexmermaid
Summary: Fred Thursday is tired and has no fight left in him. Wishing he’d never come back from the war he finds himself transported to an alternative world where no one recognises him. He regrets his wish when he sees that everyone he cares for is worse off without him. Morse helps him find his way back to put things right in his own life.
Relationships: Endeavour Morse & Fred Thursday
Comments: 36
Kudos: 24





	1. Fred

**Author's Note:**

> With apologies to “It’s A Wonderful Life” 1946 Frank Capra movie. John Thaw makes an appearance as an angel.

Fred’s had enough; he’s fought and fought to do the right thing all his life and now he’s got no more fight left in him. He’s fought the good fight throughout the war and his whole policing career; he’s known right from wrong and stayed on the side of the angels. But recently, he’s lost his way and he’s too tired now to fight his way back.

He places the note carefully on their mantelpiece addressed to his beloved Win. There’s a terrible irony in leaving it in the same spot as Joan left her own note two years ago, telling her parents that she was leaving home and not to try to bring her back. This time however there won’t be any possibility of bringing Fred back.

He’s left details for his wife on the state of their finances. She’ll be better off, he admits bitterly, with his death in service benefits than if he lives.

He’s told her how much he loves her, always has, still does.

And how deeply sorry he is to have let her down so badly. No need to list his failures, she knows them well enough, a sorry catalogue of recent lies and failings and corruption that he just can’t put right. That’s what he does, puts things right, but now he’s failed her and everyone around him. No point carrying on anymore, is there, if he can’t put himself right?

Sorry. It’s all he really needs to say. It’s all she wants to hear. He says it loud and clear.

_My darling_

_I’m sorry for everything. Sorry I let you down…_

He’s lost his sense of direction in this wicked world when he of all men was meant to point true. His moral compass has spun out of control and he just can’t put things right any more.

Fred Thursday, Detective Chief Inspector in the Oxford constabulary, has allowed corruption into his soul. He’s lied, taken bribes, turned a blind eye to his colleagues’ illegal schemes, even fallen in with them. His moral degeneration appalls him. It disgusts him that he, so long the dedicated copper with such high standards, has sunk so low. He had always striven to protect those in need but now he has failed in all his responsibilities.

Damn it! They’re better off without him.

He takes another gulp of whiskey, Dutch courage to face what lies ahead.

Win will miss him he acknowledges with a pang of guilt, but she can start again, maybe meet someone else, perhaps in that dance class she lives for. He’s not jealous, not really, she deserves better. She’s a diamond, he’s proud of her, if envious of her new found interests and friends. It’s not too late for her to find a new love, shake off her woes and put their failed marriage behind her. With him out of the way there’ll be nothing to hold her back.

She moved out to stay with her sister and he can’t blame her. She’d had enough after years of putting him and his work first only to find out now that he’d dropped all pretence of doing right by others. She’d known what was going on without needing to question him. Bruised knuckles, blood on shirt cuffs, bundles of unexplained cash, late nights with the wrong crowd. She saw the truth behind his lies and evasion.

She didn’t even fight him, just realised that she’d lost him then left him. He was so wrapped up in himself that when she walked out he was stunned. He’d seen her slipping away, off to her dance classes and girls’ nights out, taking on a part time job, but had been reluctant to admit she was building herself a new life. He’d refused to take them seriously, these growing interests, until they displaced him in her life and she was gone from his.

And he was left alone.

Fred lifts the photo in its cheap frame and studies it closely. Win, laughing in the sun, holding his hand in that blissful moment on the day they wed. He was happy then, so happy to have and to hold his own darling Win. He can feel the moment still, deep in his heart, the joy of knowing that everything would be alright because his Win loved him. Or she did back then, and it meant the world to him. And he loved her right back, always has, always will. He kisses the photo lovingly and props it up behind his letter.

He sighs. Too late for regrets, he’s brave enough to own up to his failings.

He’s lived for his family all these years but now they’ve moved on and he’s lost his way without them. It’s no excuse, he knows, but if only he had kept them closer he might not have been so easily tempted off the right path. Once they find out the full extent of his failings, they will scorn even his memory.

His daughter Joan despises him for interfering in her life so she’ll be glad to see the back of him. And his son Sam has become a man with his own ideas who no longer needs his father to turn to. Fred’s stomach churns with misery. He misses his wife and kids dreadfully.

Booze and work and exhaustion are no substitute for a loving family.

He’s told Morse as much so many times yet the lad has still not settled down. Fred worries about him, even now, when he can no longer hope to help him. Early on when Morse was so damn young, Fred had tried to fold him into his own family, opening the front door and welcoming him in. But Morse has a self destructive streak that blocked all attempts to draw him into their safe haven. He’s built no defences of his own, lurching from one short lived relationship to another, not that he’d ever discussed them with his governor.

Thursday can see that Morse needs help in this cruel world to give him the strength to get through those vicious days. If only he would find someone, goodness knows he’s never been short of offers, what with all and sundry throwing themselves at him with his pretty looks and distracted air. If he wanted it badly enough, he could make a go of it, build a family of his own to give him the support he so badly needs.

But then again, it’s Morse we’re talking about.

Morse, brave lad, will struggle on alone in the face of ever increasing police corruption. An idealist, he’ll never compromise even if it means his own ruin. And now Morse knows that Fred, his idol at one time, can no longer be trusted to do the right thing. Morse is disgusted by his former friend. That hurts dreadfully, Fred cannot deny it. Morse was always the best of them and Fred values his good opinion above all others’.

Fred fears for Morse but can trust him to handle this one last investigation. There’s a scribbled note for Morse alongside the letter to Win. When he comes to pick him up in the morning Morse will find there’s no one to answer the front door. He’ll give up knocking and go find the spare key. When he lets himself in Morse will find Fred’s note addressed to him.

_Morse I’m sorry it had to be you. You’ll find me in the shed but don’t let anyone else see. Yours, Fred_

Considerate to the last, Fred had tried to spare his wife this horror. Morse hates the very sight of blood but he’ll know what to do. He’s trained himself to look beyond the scene of death and understand the reasons for it. Morse will not let him down this one last time.

Fred has cleaned and oiled his service revolver, usually kept under lock and key out in the shed. It seems right that the pistol he carried throughout the war should be the means of his own destruction. It lies on the bench in the shed, waiting for him. The cool steel in his hand, the solid weight of metal, so familiar from all those years ago, will be a final comfort to him. The revolver reminds him of a time long ago when he was young and strong and fighting the good fight.

“Damn it!” he says out loud. “I wish I’d never come back from the war.”

Soon it will be over. He longs for that final rest. He quaffs the rest of his whiskey and puts down the glass. Turning off the lights, he heads for the back door to go out to the shed.

He hopes they will forgive him.


	2. Clarence

Thursday has taken a long, cold look at himself and he no longer likes what he sees. A bent copper is an affront to anyone, especially to himself. There’s no turning back now, the only way out of this situation is to end it.

He is headed out to the shed to find a final solution in the shape of his service revolver. There’s some comfort in that, the weapon is an old friend and he welcomes this final meeting between them.

But before he can move, there is a tremendous banging on the front door.

“Now who’s this?” Thursday mutters, interrupted in his plan to end his own life. Nevertheless duty kicks in and he answers the door.

“Oh, dear, I’m just in time, eh?” pants the agitated stranger on his doorstep.

Thursday looks at him in surprise, expecting an explanation.

“And you are…?”

“Clarence, my name’s Clarence! Oh, my, I’m so pleased to meet you at last, though not under these circumstances.”

Clarence is about sixty years old, with a thick head of white hair and sharp blue eyes. He reminds Thursday of someone but he just can’t place him right now.

“I’m sorry,” Thursday says, “but do I know you?”

“Ah!” Clarence giggles. “I’m your Guardian Angel! Got here just in time! Couldn’t let you go through with all that, could I?”

Thursday frowns at him. Last thing he needs right now in his present state is some nutcase wasting his time.

“You’re what….?”

“Well, now, there’s plenty of time for explanations later, we need to get on! You’d better put on your hat and coat, you’re needed!”

“Where, what’s going on…?” Thursday asks but like the good copper he is, senses that there’s someone in need and pulls on his coat and hat.

As Thursday closes the door behind him, Clarence holds out his hand by way of an introduction.

Automatically, Thursday shakes his hand and as he does so they are whisked away in time and space to an altogether different world.


	3. Charlie

“What!?” demands Thursday, lurching into Clarence who is still clutching his hand.

“Oh!” Clarence exclaims, “so that’s how it works. I’ve never done it before, you see. First time for everything.”

Clarence had arrived on Fred’s doorstep just moments before he was about to kill himself and somehow dragged him here. It hasn’t yet sunk in that Clarence claimed to be his Guardian Angel. Rather the immediate shock is that they are no longer standing on Thursday’s doorstep but have arrived miraculously in the East End of London.

“What the …?” Thursday looks around in amazement. They are standing outside Thursday’s warehouse, now owned by Fred’s brother. “What just happened…?”

Clarence lets go his hand and launches breathlessly into his pre-prepared speech.

“Frederick Albert Thursday, you’ve been given a chance to see your wish come true. I’m here to guide you and show you what a mistake it would be for you to wish your life away. My name is Clarence and I’m your Guardian …”

“Angel, yes you said!” Thursday interrupts impatiently.

“That’s right,” Clarence beams at him.

“What’s going on Clarence? This looks like Charlie’s place.”

“You wished you had not come home from the war. So I’m going to show you just what would have happened if you’d got your wish.”

Thursday frowns at his strange companion, trying to work out what he means. Before he can decide, Thursday hears a cry of pain from inside the warehouse.

“Charlie!” he snaps. “That’s Charlie.”

Before Clarence can stop him, Thursday has barrelled through the warehouse door to find his brother Charlie in the hands of a pair of thugs who are giving him a thorough beating.

“Oi! Police!” yells Thursday.

The villains drop their victim in a heap and scarper through the rear doors.

“Charlie! Charlie! What’s going on here?”

“Get me out of here, quick!” groans Charlie, hand to his belly and in pain. “We’ve got to get out before…”

There’s a dreadful _whump_ of an explosion in the back of the empty warehouse and flames leap in the air. It could only be arson with the flames deliberately fuelled by petrol.

“C’mon, let’s be ‘avin’ you,” commands Thursday as he hauls his brother to his feet and drags the injured man from the building. The warehouse has caught light now and is burning fiercely.

They collapse across the road on their knees and look back in horror as the flames reach the roof, engulfing the old wooden timbers.

“Oh, no! Oh, no! Not this. I’m ruined,” groans Charlie.

“Charlie, look at me! What’s going on here?”

Shamefully Charlie hangs his head.

“I couldn’t pay them. Owed too much. They’ve burned the place down so they can claim the money as an insurance job.”

“Who did, the Twins?”

“Nah, mate. Local low life.” Charlie takes his first good look at Thursday crouched over him in concern. “Thanks mate. You did me a good turn there. They were going to have me burn to a cinder along with the rest of it.”

Thursday falls back against the brick wall alongside Charlie’s battered form.

“Couldn’t leave you in there. You’re my brother!” Thursday huffs, coughing now with the smoke getting to his weakened lungs.

“I wish,” responds Charlie wearily. “Lost one in the desert and the other in Italy. And now I’ve gone and lost the last of the Thursdays’ inheritance. I’m going to have to get myself over to Spain and lie low hoping all this will blow over.”

“Charlie! It’s me, Fred! Don’t you know your own brother?”

Charlie peers closely at Thursday’s face. He frowns and shakes his head then eases back with his hand over his ribs. They can hear a siren coming closer, no doubt the fire brigade but too late to save the property from the fire.

“No, mate, you’re mistaken. Our Fred died in the war. God rest his soul. The best brother a man could have.”

Distraught at not being recognised by his own brother, Thursday tries to scramble to his feet. As he struggles to his knees Clarence appears and offers him a hand up. Thursday takes his hand and has a fleeting glimpse of Charlie’s shocked face before the world spins out of control again and everything around him disappears.


	4. Jim

Still coughing from the smoke in his lungs, Thursday reels into Clarence once again and clutches at him.

“What…? What’s going on Clarence?” He’s got hold of Clarence by two good handfuls of the front of his coat and is shaking the startled angel.

“Like I said, Fred, you’re going to see what will happen if you get your wish. Your brother couldn’t believe it was you because _his_ Fred died in the war. And he’s got himself into all sorts of trouble without you to see him right; no one to bail him out, mixing with the wrong sort, losing the business, nearly got himself killed. Do you understand now what you’re seeing?”

“You’re telling me this is some sort of alternative world?” scoffed Thursday. “A world in which I don’t exist?”

“Well, you did exist, but only until you died in the war. That was your wish. And you see they’ve had to manage without you since then.”

Thursday looks around wildly, seeing buildings he can recognise in this dingy alley.

“Look here, we’re back in Oxford. We’re home! Is that it? Is it over now you’ve had your little joke?”

Clarence smiles sadly.

“Oxford, yes, but not home. A different version of it. You’ll see.”

Thursday releases him with a shove of his two fists pushing Clarence hard back against the wall.

“You can clear off, whoever you are! I’ve had enough of this lark!”

“Oh, no, I can’t leave you here. You have to see it through and then I’ll take you back. That way, I’ll get my wings, you see. I can’t become a Senior Angel until this is finished.”

A familiar voice calls out to them and Thursday turns to see his colleague Jim Strange striding down the alley. Thursday lets out a sigh of relief but it’s cut short when he turns in triumph to Clarence who has suddenly disappeared.

“Evening, matey, what’s all this then?” growls Strange.

“Strange, good man! Am I glad to see you.”

“Why’s that then, Sir? Got ourselves in a spot of bother have we?”

“Jim it’s me!” Thursday thumps himself robustly on the chest to identify himself, “Fred Thursday, DCI Thursday from Cowley nick.”

Thursday scowls at him impatiently.

“No, Sir, you’re not from Cowley and you’re not my DCI. Box is his name. Now what’s this all about?”

Thursday can’t understand what he’s hearing.

“Look here, Jim...” he starts again.

“Constable Strange to you. No one’s called me Jim since I was a kid.”

Thursday belatedly realises that Jim Strange is a Constable in uniform, not a Detective Sergeant in civvies. There’s more, now he comes to realise. Jim Strange, _Constable_ Strange is not the bulky chap he once was. He’s the same large framed individual but somewhat leaner, lighter than Thursday has ever seen him. It doesn’t suit him, this scrawny version of himself, making him appear underfed and hungry looking.

There’s no use arguing with Strange, he can see the officer is getting annoyed. Instead Thursday puts all his faith in finding one individual, certain that of all people, one brilliant young man can help him in this, his most desperate hour.

He takes a deep breath to calm himself when his natural reaction would be to have a blazing row and exert his authority. But Thursday can see that here and now with this particular individual he carries no authority at all.

“Constable Strange,” Thursday begins again with exaggerated courtesy. “If you can’t help me then perhaps you can tell me where to find a man who can. Morse can clear this up. Call Morse, won’t you, and he’ll sort this out?”

“Morse!” Strange laughs derisively. “That old lush. Good luck with that if you think Morse can help you with anything. He can’t find his way out of a whiskey bottle.”

If it was a shock to find Jim so different from his usual easy going self, it is nothing compared to the despair of hearing that Morse is no longer the same either. The realisation that Morse, his one real hope of getting to the bottom of this mess, is also quite changed, fills Thursday with dread. He literally reels back from this unwelcome news.

“Morse?” Thursday pleads, “where is he?”

“You’ll find Constable Morse in The Red Lion, this time of evening, same as every other day.” Strange says derisively. “But be quick before he gets too pissed or you’ll get no sense out of him. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

As Strange pushes past, Thursday steps out of his way stunned at the transformation in his old friend and the news of a very different Morse. He waits while the reality sinks in. Apparently this is Oxford, but not the one he knows. Clarence had warned him that things would be different here but it still comes as a terrible shock to see a familiar old friend so changed.

He tries to gather his thoughts as he watches Strange go to the back door of a busy nightclub. Ignoring Thursday who is some way off and not seeming to care if he’s being seen or not, Strange raps out a tattoo on the door. The door opens a crack, there’s a short exchange of words and a hand thrusts out a bulky envelope to Strange. As the door slams shut, Strange counts the wedge of notes he’s been given and thrusts them deep in his overcoat pocket.

Disgusted with what he’s seen, Thursday turns away. He’s truly unsettled by Strange acting so out of character; as if Jim would ever take a bribe! He’s here, in Oxford, although all that business with Charlie has thrown him. Clarence said this was about him wishing he’d never come back from the war, and that’s starting to make sense in a very twisted way. Thursday lurches into the night, confused and upset with what Clarence has shown him.

There’s only one way to sort this out, he decides, and that is to find Morse. If anyone can explain to him what’s going on then Morse can. And with Morse’s help he can put things right again.


	5. Morse

Clarence hurries along beside Thursday trying to keep up with his longer strides. The angel has a noticeable limp at the ankle of his right foot but Thursday doesn’t care enough to slow down for his sake.

“He’s not the same, you know, he’s different here. Don’t expect this Morse to know who you are, he’s never met you,” urges Clarence.

Thursday huffs, impatient to find Morse because when he does he knows that Morse will sort it all out for him. He doesn’t want to hear what Clarence is telling him. If he thinks on what he’s seen so far it’ll confuse the hell out of him so Thursday hurries on to find his touchstone, his lad, his Morse.

As he strides into the Red Lion pub Thursday looks around. He notes that Clarence has disappeared again, which is becoming something of an annoying habit. Thursday hopes Morse is here in the pub as Jim Strange suggested. At first glance he overlooks the crumpled figure over in the corner then does a double take when he realises that it’s Morse.

The young man he has worked with so closely for so many years is never well turned out but this time he’s positively shabby. Head hanging low over a pint and chaser, Morse is slumped on his elbows wearing a grubby mackintosh over a tired suit. His tie is askew and Thursday can see from here that the shirt he’s wearing is dirty around the collar.

Gathering himself after the initial shock of seeing Morse so run down, Thursday steps up to his table.

“Morse?” he asks gently, almost afraid to find this is indeed him.

Raising a weary face, the young man is clearly the worse for wear.

“Mmmm?” Morse replies, eyes half closed, not quite focussed on the big man in front of him.

“Sergeant Morse?” Thursday tries again. It is him but Thursday can scarce believe it. His heart goes out to the lad in front of him who looks so dishevelled, so down trodden.

“Constable not Ss’gent! Mmmm. Wha’d’yer’wan?”

“Morse,” Thursday repeats idiotically.

So shocked is he that Thursday needs to sit down. He slides his bulk onto the settle alongside Morse who barely registers him he’s so far gone in his drink.

“Morse, lad, I need to talk to you!”

“Mmmm?”

“Morse!” he barks, getting annoyed. “Morse! Endeavour!”

At the sound of his first name, Morse’s head snaps up, his eyes wide with shock, staring at Thursday in something close to fear.

“What’s…how do you know…what did you call me?”

Thursday had not meant to frighten him, but Morse is so alarmed that he tries to calm him down.

“It’s alright, lad, it’s alright. Didn’t mean to make you jump like that.”

But Morse is not to be mollified. He’s screwed himself into the far corner of the bench seat to look directly at Thursday, blue eyes blazing.

“Who the hell are you?”

Thursday is gutted. His own dear lad doesn’t know him. It’s just as Clarence warned him.

“Fred Thursday. Detective Chief Inspector Fred Thursday of Cowley Police. I’ve been your governor these last six years or more.”

Morse shakes his head as if to clear his thoughts.

“How the hell do you know my name?” he demands, suddenly sober and very, very shocked.

Thursday thinks for a moment. Maybe he can use this to his advantage to persuade Morse to help him?

“Well, it’s in your police records isn’t it? I’ll have seen it when we worked together at Cowley. Sergeant E. Morse. Endeavour Morse.”

Morse rubs his eyes. He is still in shock, but intrigued now, trying to work out how Thursday could possibly know his baptismal name.

“No,” Morse said. “I’ve never made Sergeant though not for want of trying. And I never used that name after leaving home. Changed the “E” to Edward. That’s what it says in my police records, Edward Morse not Endeavour.”

“Well you must have told me yourself then,” offers Thursday, now thoroughly confused at Morse’s contradiction.

“No. I’ve never told anyone. You’d never have found out that name from anyone back home either.” Morse hesitates again, before changing tack, “What do you want with me? How do you know my name?”

Thursday leans back to gather his thoughts. He doesn’t want to frighten the lad again but here’s the opportunity to persuade Morse that his story is really true. Wily old copper that he is, he decides to reveal what he knows now that he has Morse’s undivided attention.

“Grew up in Lincolnshire,” Thursday says evenly, watching Morse’s eyes widen in surprise. “Father, Cyril, died five or six years back. Stepmother, Gwen, never got on. Step sister, Joyce, fond of you.”

Morse’s mouth hangs open now, hardly able to believe what he hears.

“No! No one knows about my family. I left them all behind when I left home. You can’t know this about me!”

Thursday continues relentlessly. “First name, Endeavour, a virtue name chosen by your mother, Constance. Died when you were a child.”

Morse puts his hands over his ears to block out Thursday’s voice. He is groaning and shaking badly, with shock or fear or alcohol, Thursday can’t tell. Regretting his selfishness, Thursday reaches out to grasp Morse’s skinny wrist in his own big hand. Morse snatches his hand away and looks at Thursday in terror.

“Alright, lad, it’s alright. Hand of friendship, that’s all. Look, I’m sorry I scared you, but you have to believe me. You told me all this yourself.”

Morse puts his face in his hands, unable to stop shaking. Anxious to calm him down, Thursday starts to talk. He explains about their shared past, about finding himself suddenly in another parallel world where everything is the same but so horribly different. He’s not sure if Morse is listening but he’s jammed in the corner and he’s not able to leave without climbing over Thursday who’s blocked him in.

Eventually Morse asks a question, proving he has been paying attention.

“If you’re a senior police officer, then you must report to Superintendent Deare?” he asks.

“That piece of …he’s not still around is he?”

Morse nods.

“Alive and well and thriving.”

“Well, we can soon put that right,” growls Thursday. It is evident to Morse from his tone and response that Thursday could be an ally in his fight against police corruption.

“Buy me a beer,” suggests Morse, now alert and interested in Thursday’s story, “and I’ll see if I can help you. But first, you need to tell me all you know about Deare and his cronies.”

Over a pint they compare notes. Noting how thin the lad looks, Thursday buys fish and chips for him and encourages Morse to finish every mouthful. While Morse is eating, Thursday explains about his family and his home, how Morse has become an important part of his life and why he relies on Morse to help him now. He tells him what Clarence has said while trying to sound convincing about a guardian angel who no one else can see.

At first Morse is scornful of this tall tale, a life turned upside down, and makes himself condescendingly clear about that. The nonesense about an angel does not appeal one bit to his logical mind. However when Thursday speaks so movingly of their supposed relationship, and of his faith in Morse, the lad is touched. No one has ever cared anything for him since his mother died and he craves affection, even if it comes from a complete stranger.

Morse finds that he wants to help, it’s part of his natural response, a basis urge to solve a puzzle. Any this is some puzzle indeed, not just the story presented to him but why this apparently straightforward older bloke should seek him out. As he listens, Morse makes a internal assessment of the man in front of him; deluded perhaps but sincere, determined and rational in all respects bar the story he’s telling, confused and upset but keeping his anger under control with visible effort. Above all, what decides Morse to try to help him is Thursday’s unswerving faith in Morse himself. He’s never before felt that glow of unqualified trust from anyone save his mother. And underneath it Thursday seems unashamedly fond of Morse, giving Morse so rare a feeling of being wanted and needed that he cannot resist getting involved.

Although very obviously sceptical about Thursday’s claims, Morse also realises he has found a sympathetic and extremely knowledgeable police inspector in this odd stranger. As he warms to him, and with Thursday’s encouragement, Morse reveals that his private mission is to tackle the gangs who are drowning his beloved Oxford in cheap, toxic heroin. Knowing the truth of who protects the drugs dealers, Thursday explains the full extent of the corruption within the police force which shelters the gangs.

Morse is utterly fascinated by the web of corruption that Thursday details and which has ensnared him. For the moment he can overlook the absurd claim that Thursday is not from this world, does not fit in here, when so much of his story corresponds with Morse’s own struggle. Even if they can’t figure out what to do about Thursday himself they both agree that by putting their heads together they can start to fight back against the drugs barons and police corruption.

Although Thursday is impatient to get his own life sorted out, he is willing to work with Morse on police business in payment of a sort for Morse helping him. He promises to tell Morse all he knows about Deare and the others. Pleased with their bargain, they try to decide what to do next.

Thursday immediately wants to call on everyone he knows until he can prove his story. However Morse decides to test him first and insists they should call on another acquaintance, someone who can help them fight against the very highest level of police corruption.


	6. Jakes

Morse leads him down a back alley without explaining what they’re doing there. Thursday can see a couple of shady figures scatter as they approach.

“Jakes!” calls Morse softly, “it’s me, Morse.”

An angular young man slides out of the shadows and nods to Morse, the red glow of a cigarette between his lips.

“Alright, Morse?” he challenges, looking over Morse’s shoulder at Thursday’s solid presence..

Morse shrugs as Thursday recognises their young colleague.

“Sergeant Jakes!”

“I’m no sergeant!” snaps Jakes. “All coppers are bastards in my book.”

“You’re lying!” insists Thursday. “You’ve worked with me for years.”

Jakes steps away as Thursday lunges at him angrily. Morse has to step between them to diffuse the situation.

“It’s alright, Jakes,” says Morse. “We’re just here to ask a few questions, that’s all.”

“Oh,” says Jakes sarcastically, stepping round Morse to take a good look at Thursday. “I thought you’d brought me a punter?”

Appalled, Thursday can only stare as Jakes steps into the street light. He is gaunt and paler than ever, his face all angles and hollows. Jakes is wearing a tight black suit that is shiny with wear and grease, stained here and there, and a grubby shirt that was once white.

“Take a good look at him Jakes. Have you ever seen him before? Name of Fred Thursday. Says he was a copper at Cowley.”

Jakes narrows his eyes and steps too close to Thursday, deliberately exhaling a cloud of smoke into his face making Thursday turn away and cough.

“Nah. I don’t blow coppers. Well, only the pretty ones.” Jakes smirks and turns on his heel to take up his position once again, leaning back against the alley wall waiting for late night customers to find him.

Morse shrugs again as if that’s all there is to it but Thursday’s not done, not yet.

He strides over to the skinny rent boy and takes hold of his lapels.

“Jakes!” Thursday thunders. “Peter! For pity’s sake, man, it’s me, Fred Thursday.”

“Like it rough, do you,” laughs Jakes insolently, “well it’ll cost you extra.”

Jakes hooks one long leg around the back of Thursday’s knee and pulls him close. Jakes smells of stale cigarette smoke, unwashed clothes and body odour. Thursday stumbles forward while Jakes entwines himself around him.

Taken aback, Thursday tries again, more softly this time.

“Jakes. Peter. Don’t you know me?”

“No, mate, should I?”

So this is how it’s going to be, every time, is it? They don’t know him, his own family, his colleagues and friends, none of them know him any more. Thursday sighs and eases his weight off Jakes as they sink back against the wall.

“That’s right, my friend, make yourself comfortable,” croons Jakes into his ear. His hands run down Thursday’s flanks and he pushes his bony hips into Thursday’s groin.

“Now stop that,” Thursday growls, catching hold of Jakes’ wrists and pinning him to the wall with his arms straight at his sides. “We’re here to ask for your help.”

“Need a bit of relief, is that what you want?” Jakes wriggles into him.

Thursday leans back, ignoring Jakes’ filthy remarks.

“We need some information about a certain Superintendent Deare.”

Jakes responds immediately, angry and afraid on hearing the name of the man who abused him so viciously as a child. He writhes and bucks but Thursday has him held tight.

“Get off me you bastard, you dirty filthy bastard,” Jakes snarls.

“Alright, Peter, it’s alright,” says Thursday. “So you do know him.”

Jakes twists and writhes, unable to shake off the much stronger Thursday.

“He’s an evil bastard! And I still see him swanning around, free as you like, when I know, I know…what he did.” Jakes is trembling violently now.

“It’s alright Peter,” says Thursday releasing his hold, “but we do need your help to bring him to justice. I’ve not told Morse what he did to you and all the others, but it’s enough to have him jailed for the rest of his natural.”

Morse reaches out for Jakes and the two of them are drawn together almost in an embrace. Thursday looks on sadly at the two young men, both beaten down by life, both struggling. One dark head, sleek and shining, bows low next to one head of tousled curls as they whisper together. His lost boys, thinks Thursday, they deserve better than this. He’ll do his best to help Morse bring that bastard Deare to rights.

“Inspector Thursday can help,” insists Morse. “We have to have your testimony to bring down Deare.”

The two are allies, that much is clear, if only because everyone else is against them.

Jakes turns on Thursday.

“Why should I trust you?” Jakes snaps.

“Because Deare put a bullet in me. Tried to kill me. Very nearly did.”

“Prove it,” says Jakes.

Taken aback by his suspicion, Thursday decides there is only one way to win Jakes’ trust. He unbuttons his shirt, having to pull it out from his waistband, and untucks his vest. He runs his broad palm flat up his chest, pulling up the vest to show a wide expanse of hairy chest and an ugly scar from the bullet wound.

Jakes’ eyes narrow and he whistles softly. He nods. Thursday has shown him proof enough.

“Right. I’m in. I’ll do anything to bring down that evil bastard,” Jakes says, turning to Morse. “What do you want me to do?”

“We need your testimony against him. Will you do that?”

Jakes shudders but nods his agreement.

As Thursday tucks his shirt back in he cautions the lads.

“You mustn’t breathe a word of this until you’ve built a solid case against him. He’ll kill you if he knows you’re plotting against him.” Tapping his chest he adds, “I should know.”

Morse and Jakes nod solemnly.

“And there’s a young man you should visit,” Thursday tells Jakes. “One of four pals call themselves the Four Musketeers. They’ll help you. They went through the same as you did at Blenheim Vale.”

Jakes nods again, taking note of the name, and arranging to meet up later with Morse.

It is with great regret that Thursday watches Jakes slope off into the dark night. Another life wrecked, another wrong turn taken, if only the young man had had a steadying influence to help him face down his demons, both real and imagined. Thursday knows this is another punishing lesson arranged by Clarence.


	7. Win

“Who better to sort this out than my wife?” Thursday insists. “She’ll be at the dance studio finishing her lesson at this time of night. Win can set things right.”

He’s explained to Morse that Win had left home and they’re not really on speaking terms, but she’ll surely come to her husband’s aid and clear up this mess. She’d never turn her back on him completely.

It’s Thursday’s turn to ask Morse for help with finding out what’s happened to him and why his nearest and dearest no longer recognise him.

Morse is intrigued by Thursday’s story. He doesn’t appear to be deranged and goodness knows Morse has come across enough cranks in his time to be sure that Thursday is sincere. But it’s the fact that Thursday appears to care for him, really care about his situation, that draws Morse to him. It’s so long since anyone paid Morse any real notice other than a cursory conversation at work that Morse is starved of affection. And this big copper who’s so unexpectedly appeared in his life seems genuinely fond of Morse though he can’t see why, so Morse, unable to resist, tags along with him.

When they reach the studio, Thursday bounds up the steps to find his darling wife leaving Morse trailing behind.

“Win!” calls Thursday, seeing her in the dance hall. As she turns, he stops dead, aghast at what he sees. She’s wearing a tatty old housecoat and clutching a duster, interrupted in cleaning the piano. She’s not been dancing, hardly looks capable of it. She’s obviously the cleaner, a skivvy as her husband would put it.

But far worse, Win is old before her time, looking haggard and weary. She is stooped and moves cautiously. Her face is lined and grey, weary of life.

“Win?” he asks again. “What’s this?” He holds out his hands to her but she backs away a little nervously.

“Can I help you?” she asks in a small voice.

“Win! It’s me! Don’t you know me?”

She shakes her head timidly, becoming alarmed, clearly not recognising the big man in front of her. Morse slips past Thursday with hands raised to placate her and holding out his police warrant card.

“It’s alright Mrs. Thursday, it’s alright. I’m a policeman. Constable Morse. I just wanted to ask you a few questions if you can spare the time?”

“Oh, what about?” she asks timidly, feeling less threatened by this slight young man. “And it’s Win, dear.”

Morse waves Thursday off to fetch a chair for Mrs. Thursday then motions for him to stay silent. Reluctantly Thursday steps back, horrified at the change in Win and at her failure to recognise him. He listens in shocked silence as Morse begins to question her.

“I’ve just got a few questions, if you don’t mind, about your husband, Mrs. Thursday?” Morse starts, sounding officious.

“Oh, dear, I lost him a long time ago,” Win sighs, pulling a hanky out of the sleeve of her cardigan and sniffing into it.

“But, Win, …” protests Thursday before being rudely cut off by Morse’s raised palm. Morse continues, talking over Thursday to emphasise that he must keep his silence.

“I believe you were married during the war to a Frederick Albert Thursday?”

“That’s right, dear, lovely man he was. Such a handsome fellow. And so kind. I was a war bride, all a bit of a rush, really. We were very much in love but I didn’t have very long with him.”

“Why, what happened to your husband, if you don’t mind me asking?” Morse asks gently. He kneels down at the side of Win’s chair, his open face the very picture of compassion.

“Killed in Italy in ‘44.” She says simply then fell to crying in her handkerchief.

There is a horrible strangled noise from Thursday standing behind him and Morse turns to see Thursday raise his hands to his striken face. Morse turns his attention back to Win, patting her arm softly.

“I still miss him,” she grieves, “you’ll have to excuse me, I never really got over him. Now, what’s this all about, then?”

“We’re, umm, we’re … making sure everyone gets the war pension they’re entitled to,” Morse manages, put on the spot.

“Oh, yes, dear, I get my war widow’s pension alright. We were married while he was on leave but I never saw him again after that weekend. He didn’t come back. And then losing my daughter, well, for a long time I just couldn’t cope.”

“Joan,” blurts out Thursday in terror. “What happened to Joan?”

She waves her hand dismissively.

“No, her name was Pearl. My little poppet, she was.” Win continues as if the two men are no longer there, casting her mind back to happier times. “She was born just after I lost Fred so he never got to see her. Bonny baby she was. Whooping cough just before her third birthday,” she chokes out but can’t go on.

“Unusual name?” Morse prompts, looking to Thursday.

“Named after you mother, was she?” suggests Thursday, wiping his eyes.

“Yes, that’s right. Did you know us back then? I’m sure I would have remembered you. What did you say your name was, again?”

Thursday shakes his head, tears on his cheeks. “I didn’t,” he stammers before turning away and striding from the hall.

Outside the hall, Clarence is waiting for him. He places a comforting hand on Thursday’s back as Thursday bends double and retches in misery. As he come up for air, Thursday leans back against the cold brickwork, his mind reeling.

“I did warn you, Fred,” says Clarence apologetically. “They don’t know you. You never came back from the war, just like you wished for.”

“But we were married, she can’t have forgotten that!”

“Yes, but think, Fred! How much time did you have together, really? A couple of months courting before the war, a few weeks of leave and a long weekend to get married. Win remembers the young man she loved, not you.”

“And the child?” gulps Fred.

“A different child, born without a father to provide for her, to a mother widowed too young. Not your child, Fred.”

Fred shook his head. The grief was dragging him down, slowing his normally quick wits. His Win, his very own darling didn’t recognise him. And she had changed out of all recognition. Fred was trapped in a horrific nightmare where everything he loved and had been certain of was turned on its head. He turns away from Clarence, not wanting to hear any more.

“Who were you talking to?” asks a sharp voice as Morse steps out of the front door.

“No one” mutters Thursday, looking round for Clarence who has inconveniently disappeared.

“I offered to walk her home but she’s got to get on and finish up here first, she says,” explains Morse jerking a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of Win’s double.

Dazed at what he’s found, Thursday cannot reply. Win is not _his_ Win any more than Morse is the young lad he was so fond of. Win is alone and struggling. Morse is simply wrecked. How can all of this have happened just because Fred had wished himself dead in the war?

Thursday bends low again, hands on his knees, arms stiff. His breathing is laboured, coming in hitches, struggling to breathe properly. He digs about in his pockets until he finds a small bottle of pills and takes one, leaning back against the wall as his breathing settles once more. His hand slips beneath his jacket, resting lightly on the gunshot wound below his heart.

Morse is genuinely concerned for the poor fellow. He’s had a terrible shock, Morse can see that, so he takes Thursday in hand. He steers him, inevitably, to the nearest pub for another pint. There’s nothing much Morse can do but listen as Thursday spills out his strange story once again whilst Morse tries to puzzle it out with him.


	8. Prayer

At closing time they tumble out into the street both the worse for wear. Thursday hasn’t given a moment’s thought to where he should stay that night.

“You’d better come home with me, Sir,” Morse urges, slipping into a respectful tone that echoes their relationship in another life, a world away.

Thursday shakes his head, but not to disagree with Morse. Rather he is stunned once more with the awfulness of his predicament.

It appears that having cursed his very existence and wished he’d never come home from the war, Thursday has been thrust into a nightmare where his wish has come true. His own family, including his darling wife, do not recognise him. His friends do not know him. Worse still, they have all been profoundly harmed by not having Thursday in their lives. Thursday is beginning to understand that his stupid wish, made at his very lowest ebb, has badly affected everyone he has ever cared for.

Morse reaches out to grasp Thursday’s arm in a surprisingly firm grip, startling Thursday who tries to pull away.

But Morse is nothing if not persistent.

“You need somewhere to stay, don’t you? You’ve not got enough money for a hotel for the night.” Morse wheedles, still holding tightly.

Thursday is tipped into motion by Morse’s insistence and stumbles alongside him, not caring where they are headed.

“It’s not much but there’s a sofa you can sleep on,” Morse apologises, “and it’s not far.”

As they walk together, Thursday wonders how Morse will manage to fight police corruption single handedly. He feels enormously protective of this battered young Sergeant who will need help to take on such powerful forces, who reminds him so much of his own Morse.

“Here we are,” remarks Morse as they reach a decidedly decrepit basement flat.

He opens the front door and Thursday follows him across the threshold. The flat is dark while Morse searches for a shilling and fumbles it into the meter. In the gloom Thursday can smell the decay, damp walls, body odour, all the evidence of a life lived as a struggle.

As the electricity comes on Thursday is shocked all over again at how ill Morse looks in this harsh light, how badly nourished. The lad’s cheeks are hollow, dark bags beneath his eyes and a sallow tinge to his complexion make Morse look old before his time.

You’re not eating properly my boy. And the drink is doing you no good at all by the look of you. It can be a comfort at times but alcohol is a poor master.

Morse waves an arm grandly around the cramped room, a bed sit with a single bed in an alcove and a gas ring in the corner next to a grotty sink. The place is filthy, broken down and repellent. There’s a couple of empty scotch bottles by the sink, a sure sign of the liquid diet that is rotting this young lad from the inside out.

“Oh, lad!” sighs Thursday softly, looking round.

Morse’s situation is worse, far worse, than he had anticipated. His heart goes out to the lad, clearly struggling to hold body and soul together, sunk into squalor and self neglect yet somehow determined to hang onto the one good thing in his life, his vocation as a detective.

Oh, lad, isn’t there anyone can pull you up out of this mess? Make sure you get a square meal and lay off the booze once in a while?

Morse sees but brushes off Thursday’s pity and pushes past to grab two of dirty glasses. He finds a couple of fingers left in a half bottle of scotch. Pouring them both a stiff drink, Morse raises his glass with an ironic twist of his mouth and offers a toast.

“Home, sweet home!”

Thursday doesn’t look too closely at the smudges on the glass, just gulps down a mouthful. The cheap scotch burns a path down his throat and he coughs harshly, slapping at his chest.

“You alright?” asks Morse.

“Bullet left me with a weak chest,” Thursday wheezes in explanation.

Morse stares at him. “So you really are a copper?”

Thursday tilts his head and subjects the young man to his fiercest stare.

“What else could I be?” he demands.

Morse smirks back at him and shrugs. He stares at Thursday, unabashed, considering the situation.

“At first I thought maybe you were one of them that takes a fancy sometimes,” Morse challenges, narrowing his eyes at Thursday.

Thursday’s eyebrows shoot up and he nearly chokes on a mouthful of scotch.

“Me?” he croaks eventually. “No, lad, no, you’re safe with me.”

It’s Thursday’s turn to consider things.

“Try to take advantage do they, some of them?” Thursday asks.

The russet curls bob as Morse drops his gaze to his glass and nods.

“They get the wrong end of the stick. I just want them to buy me a drink when I’m short of a bob or two, bit of company maybe, but that’s all. I don’t mean to lead them on.”

No, lad, mebbe you don’t, but with a face like an angel you’d tempt a very saint. And drunk with it, hitting on the older men to ponce a pint off them. Oh, lad, you’re just looking for trouble.

“Take the sofa then, shall I?” Thursday asks to change the subject, taking off his coat and hat, and sitting down.

Morse nods, empties the dregs of the bottle into his glass and slurps it down. He’s pretty pissed, Thursday can see, probably near enough permanently drunk.

Morse collapses bonelessly beside him on the sofa.

“This story of yours, how can you prove who you are?” he asks thoughtfully, slurring his words a little.

Encouraged, Thursday realises this clever lad is getting interested. That’s exactly what he needs, Morse’s considerable intellect to help him puzzle this out.

“Well, there’s my police record and my service record during the war,” he offers.

“Could be faked or altered, I suppose,” Morse muses, thinking out loud rather than contradicting him.

“Then there’s my baptism record, marriage at the registry office with my Win…” he tails off noticing that Morse’s chin has already fallen onto his chest and Morse is dropping off.

Thursday slips his broad palm lightly round the back of his head and draws Morse closer. He murmurs some words of comfort as Morse sags against his chest. He pets the lad’s soft curls and strokes his shoulder. Finally he rests his cheek on top of Morse’s head and holds him close.

There’s nothing of him, all skin and bones, a real case of self neglect, with alcohol replacing a good square meal. Chronic alcoholism is ruining a sharp mind. Not just fallen on hard times, but wallowing in them, Thursday concludes, glancing around the bedsit. Risking trouble by poncing drinks, offering his sparkling wit and pretty face in return or maybe more.

And yet, and yet, underneath the ruined exterior he’s still Morse. The fierce intellect, the bloody minded self righteousness, the independence can all be glimpsed at times.

He holds his lad for a while until Morse’s breathing slows down. Tipping his chin up, Thursday realise Morse has at last fallen asleep or passed out from the alcohol more like. After giving him one last cuddle, Thursday releases his embrace and stands up.

Risking his tired back, Thursday bends over the sleeping figure and lifts him gently in his arms. He carries Morse to the bed and arranges him carefully on his side. Wrapping him up in the coverlet Thursday actually groans out loud at how young and vulnerable he looks when asleep.

Thursday’s heart is aching for this young man, lost and alone in a wicked world that has chewed him up and spat him out. He had a promising career as a copper once and now look at him, battling with forces he cannot beat on his own. Thursday is determined to try to get this lad back on his feet and maybe in return Morse can help figure out a way for him to get back home.

He runs his hand over Morse’s soft curls and bends down to press a good night kiss on his forehead, just as he used to do when his own kiddies were little.

“Night, son,” breathes Thursday.

Morse sleeps on, oblivious. Thursday strokes his hair and whispers his prayer.

“Morse, lad. You’ve got to figure out what’s going on. You’re the only one who can help me. Please, lad, please? You do believe me now, don’t you?”


	9. Thursday

“Right, now,” murmurs Morse, hunched over the photostat viewer, running his finger down the screen.

He’s dragged Thursday to the Bodleian Library to the section where the records are kept. A dogged researcher, he wants to be sure of his facts before he can trust Thursday’s extraordinary, frankly unbelievable story. They’re looking through the service records from Thursday’s wartime regiment, a long list of servicemen with names and dates of their various postings.

On their way, Thursday had bought Morse a huge breakfast at the café and talked while Morse ate. He explained that he had arrived here, _in this life_ , as he put it, after wishing he’d not come back from the war. His words sounded fantastical even to his own ears when he claimed that Clarence had turned up to act on that wish, brought him here somehow and appeared alongside him now and then unseen by anyone else. He hopes his war record can convince Morse to help him.

“Thursday, Thursday, Thursday,” Morse mutters, conjuring up the name.

The actual Thursday lets Morse do the research, sure that he’ll find the proof he’s looking for. He’s content to watch the lad eagerly scanning the list, his enthusiasm now focused on helping unravel this mystery. He bears such a close resemblance to _his_ Morse in attitude and intellect that Thursday would find it difficult to separate the two of them if it weren’t that this Morse looking so underfed and beaten down. His pitiful state, both physical and mental, has Thursday fretting over his welfare already after less than one day’s acquaintance.

“Here we are!” Morse exclaims, finding Fred’s official wartime record. Morse reads the type carefully then rereads it shaking his head dubiously. He turns to Thursday with a frown, clearly puzzled at what he has read.

“Let me have that I.D. card again, won’t you?” Morse asks, holding out his hand for Thursday’s police warrant.

“Here,” says Thursday, handing it to him. “What’ve you found?”

Thursday sitting to the side of the screen can’t see the minuscule text from his angle. What he does see is concern rippling across the lad’s expressive face which in turn alerts Fred that they might have found a snag.

Morse frowns again, more deeply, mouthing the full name of Frederick Albert Thursday, looking back and forth between the warrant and the screen.

“Is that you?” Morse asks suspiciously, pointing to the screen again, now displaying a black and white photo of a handsome young man in army uniform. He leans back to allow Thursday to see the photo properly but leaves his hand on the screen obscuring the text.

“Yes, that’s me!” Thursday chuckles with relief, seeing the photo for the first time in years. “Don’t you recognise that good looking young fellow?” he jokes. “Mind you, it was a good few years ago.”

Morse shakes his head slowly and turns to stare at his new friend.

“It can’t be.” He says it with such finality that Thursday shrugs and digs out his wallet.

“Here, now, that’s my wedding photo taken around the same time. Wearing the same uniform. We only had a long weekend together so no time to get m’self a suit.” Thursday explains wistfully. “See the resemblance now?” he insists.

Morse takes the faded photo out of the wallet and holds it up next to the screen, studying the two photos side by side. Thursday sits back convinced that they have now found proof of who he says he is.

“Where did you serve?” snaps Morse, testing Thursday’s story against the detailed evidence in the text.

Thursday calmly reels off a list of campaigns and destinations finishing up with his date of demob, while Morse follow the words on the screen.

Morse turns slowly back in his chair to face him. He tips his head to one side to tug at his ear lobe, blue eyes wide in thought, with a slight frown twisting his brow. He looks right through Thursday with a penetrating gaze, his wide, expressive mouth clamped firmly in a line. Thursday looks on fondly, recognising that all too familiar look and waiting patiently whilst Morse is thinking.

“It’s you alright,” Morse says finally, and adds reluctantly,”the name and dates and photos all match. Unless, unless…you could have taken this man’s name and pretended that it’s you?”

“Whyever would I do that?” Thursday huffs. “And you can trace back my wedding record, my birth certificate, if you want more proof. That’s me alright.” Impatiently he leans across Morse to tap the screen, emphasising his point.

“Look here, lad! Campaign dates, just as I said” Thursday runs his finger along the text on the screen, reading it himself for the first time. “Oh, what’s this? The record’s not complete. After Italy we pushed on up north.”

Thursday squints more closely. He falls silent and his hand drops from the screen. The colour drains from his cheeks as he turns to look at Morse. Shock is written all over his face.

Morse is watching him carefully, registering the genuine emotion that can’t readily be faked. It all fits so far, Morse considers, the war record backed by Mrs. Thursday’s sad story, Thursday’s inexplicable familiarity with Morse’s secretive past and his extensive knowledge about policing and crime in Oxford.

Thursday looks like he’s seen a ghost. Actually he has, a ghostly image of another life.

Morse looks back to the screen and reads out loud their devastating discovery.

“Frederick Albert Thursday, service number matches, campaigns match right up to the last entry, Monte Cassino, Italy. Died of wounds. Buried Cassino War Cemetery.”

“So I never came back from the war?” Thursday whispers.

Morse nods.

“You got what you wished for,” he says gently.


	10. Bright

Now that he believes Thursday, Morse decides to help if he can. He’s not sure why he wants to get involved, whether he feels sorry for this decent man beside him or flattered that Thursday sought him out or simply intrigued by the fantastical story of another parallel life. But one thing Morse wants to understand is how to fight the corruption eating into Oxford and he realises he can do that more effectively with Thursday’s help.

Thursday, desperate now to find someone who knows him, persuades Morse to take him to see Mr. Bright.

On the way he reflects that if his own wife and Morse don’t recognise him then probably Mr. Bright won’t know him either. Although it might turn out to be a wasted journey for himself, he wonders if maybe he can put his police experience to good use to help Morse while they’re about it.

“Mr. Bright must know more about this police corruption business? Seeing how he rubs shoulders with the great and good.”

Morse shrugs and explains that Mr. Bright, former Chief Inspector at the Cowley station, has retired and become a bitter recluse. After being sidelined in the merger with County he was humiliated by a posting to Traffic. And by steadfastly refusing to join the ranks of corrupt senior detectives he was finally ousted from the force to his lasting regret.

Bright has retained a tolerance for just one former colleague, the equally incorruptible Morse.

“He might know something that will help my investigation, but hasn’t said anything to me so far. Maybe he’ll talk to you? Will you ask him, Sir? It would mean a great deal to have him on my side?”

“Might as well do something useful seeing’s I’m here” grumbles Thursday.

When they arrive, Thursday is dismayed to find Bright a broken man, embittered by his treatment at the hands of his senior officers. He is badly dressed in scruffy clothes, no longer the dapper chap he used to be. All self respect seems to have faded, Thursday notes, glancing round the once pristine front room that is now neglected and positively dirty due to the large number of mangy cats wandering freely throughout the house.

“Well, Morse, Thursday, what’s this all about?” Bright asks as he pours himself a large gin and lime after the introductions. Thursday refuses the offer of a drink this early in the day and glares at Morse to follow suit.

“I was wondering, Sir, if you remember me from Cowley? Detective Chief Inspector Fred Thursday, Sir. I was there when you arrived.”

Bright’s beady eyes survey Thursday shrewdly.

“No, no, no one of that name was at Cowley during my time.”

“You must remember me, Sir. I was shot in the chest and in a coma for weeks.” Thursday pleads.

“Good Heavens, Thursday, I would have remembered that! I’m sorry but no, no, I don’t believe we’ve ever met.”

Thursday does not give up so easily, though.

“But we have met, Sir. You told me you killed a man-eating tiger in India in your youth although you couldn’t save your colleague,” Thursday blurts.

“What on earth…how the devil…?” Bright blusters. “How in Heaven’s name did you find that out?”

“You told me you met your wife at a dance when you lit her cigarette for her. She asked if you’d come to save her and you said you rather thought you had.”

Bright is speechless. This intensely private man has never, ever disclosed those words to any acquaintances in India much less here in England. It was a secret between him and his wife and no one else.

He stands up, brushing a reluctant cat from his lap, to pour himself another gin, a large one this time. He downs it to steady his nerves and pours another before addressing them, still with his back to them.

“I don’t know how the Hell you know these things about me but I want you to leave my house right now.” Bright whirls around, incensed. “Is this some sort of disgusting threat from that revolting creature, Deare?” he demands.

Sadly Thursday shakes his head, realising Bright cannot help him.

“No, Sir, not at all, Sir. We’re her to ask for your help to bring him to justice.”

“And why should I believe you?”

“Because when I got too close to pulling him down, Deare shot me.” Thursday pats his chest to indicate the wound. “Put me in a coma for weeks. Only just pulled through.”

Bright’s face immediately changes to a look of triumph.

“I knew it, I knew it! Look here, Thursday, I’m very sorry I can’t remember you but if there’s one thing we can agree on, it’s that Deare is a rotten apple indeed and an extremely dangerous man.”

Thursday thinks quickly, offering Bright an incentive to trust him.

“We have reason to believe, Sir, that Superintendent Deare has covered up years of abuse at the Blenheim Vale childrens’ home in order to profit from bribes given by those who perpetrated the offences. If we can build the case against him with your help, we can put him away for good.”

“You have evidence?” Bright asks cautiously.

“Oh yes, Sir, we have witnesses who will come forward. Victims actually.” Morse replies.

“Well I’ll offer any help I can, Morse. Anything I can do to root out that disgusting crowd at head office once and for all.”

Trusting Morse, Bright starts to talk. His knowledge of bribes taken, laws broken and villains allowed to do their worst have crystallised into a coherent framework of accusations that will stand up in a court of law if only Morse can provide supporting evidence.

And now Morse thinks he has that evidence, Bright spews out a catalogue of sins that his enemies have made and can be prosecuted for. His determination to see justice done is rooted in a deeply personal hatred for those who have abused their power, Deare especially. Coming from a retired senior officer, Bright’s testimony will carry enormous weight and give them the basis of a solid case for toppling the worst of the corrupt officers along with their business cronies.

“If I had my way I’d put a bullet in each and every one of them,” Bright spits out.

“Take very great care around Deare, Sir, he put a bullet in me,” warns Thursday. “He has the power to ruin you.”

“Pah!” retorts the reincarnation of his former boss, waving his hand around the room and startling several cats. “My wife has died, my career is ruined, I’m slowly going out of my mind washed up here. What have I possibly got to lose?”

After a longer discussion, and a polite avoidance of hearing from Bright for the third time how he shot a man eating tiger, Morse rolls his eyes to signal to Thursday that it’s time to leave.

As he shakes his hand on the way out, Thursday feels an unaccountable fondness for this catty version of Bright, all claws and cunning. The little man has risen to the challenge and will gladly help Morse in his crusade against his corrupt senior colleagues. Thursday hopes that it will be enough to protect Morse from their vicious backlash.


	11. DeBryn

The two of them make a curious couple, thrown together by Thursday’s strange appearance in Morse’s life. The big, bluff copper has become very concerned about the skinny young Constable, finding him to be a more worn out version of his brave lad. Although Thursday is anxious to find a way back to his own life, he is getting more and more drawn into Morse’s mission to investigate police corruption in Oxford.

“There’s someone else who has been invaluable in fighting this war against drugs,” Morse says, “although I’m not sure he can be of any help in getting you back to where you belong.”

“That might have to wait. Clarence seems to think that’s his job, to get me back there.”

“Well, whilst you’re here, maybe you can help me investigate the corruption in the police force. I’m convinced it goes all the way to the top.”

“Now Mr. Bright’s on your side, you can start making a case against these buggers,” Thursday muses. “It’s all linked together. Find out who’s supplying the drugs and you’ll uncover who’s in high places protecting them. It will all lead back to Deare. But be careful, Morse! Don’t go jumping in with both feet and no backup like you usually do. Deare won’t hesitate to shoot you dead if you get too close.”

Thursday lays his hand on Morse’s arm. He’s become just as protective over this version of Morse as he is about the one back home. And even more worried about him seeing how much he needs someone to back him up as he has no DCI Thursday in his life.

Morse blushes but does not pull away. The hand of friendship, Thursday described it as last night. Now, more than ever Morse needs a friend and this solid old copper has shown himself to be a friend indeed sharing his intimate knowledge of police cover ups and wickedness.

They pull up outside the hospital at the back door to the morgue.

“DeBryn?” asks Thursday, happy at the prospect of seeing his old colleague, if anxious at getting another blank reception.

Morse nods and pushes open the door to DeBryn’s little office.

“Fuck’s sake, Morse! Don’t you ever knock?” snaps DeBryn.

“Morning Max,” laughs Morse. “Someone I want you to meet.”

Morse introduces Thursday but DeBryn shows no sign whatsoever of recognising him. Thursday recognises him, although the good doctor is considerably changed and very much for the worse. Overweight, harassed and positively slovenly, Dr. DeBryn is a gross version of the crisp and efficient Home Office pathologist that Thursday knows and respects.

“DCI Thursday is working on evidence to bring to justice the drugs cartels operating here in Oxford.” Morse explains.

“About fucking time! I’ve been shouting myself hoarse over these heroin deaths and no bugger pays any notice. Someone needs to find the source of the supply and fucking kill it dead!”

DeBryn is incensed, at the end of his tether, Thursday can plainly see. So he wastes no time in small talk.

“Morocco” says Thursday flatly.

Both Morse and DeBryn stare at him.

“Morocco” he repeats. “Brought in by way of a schoolmaster named Ivory who holidays there. Only he might be dead by now. If he is, you’ll find his body in the cesspit at Coldwater School.”

There is a moment’s stunned silence before DeBryn challenges him.

“And you know this for sure?”

Thursday nods.

“Then why haven’t you fucking done something about it?” explodes DeBryn, slamming the desk and rising to his feet. Before he can continue his red-faced, foul mouthed rant however, he clutches at his chest and splutters to a halt.

“Max!”

Morse darts to his friend’s side and sits him down carefully. Thursday turns away to get the overwrought doctor a glass of water.

“It’s getting worse, Morse,” DeBryn confides. “Bloody drugs are getting purer and more lethal. Fuck knows where it’ll end.”

When they’ve all calmed down a bit, especially DeBryn, now slumped at his desk, they share the information they have. DeBryn has catalogued the heroin deaths in great detail and can prove they are all connected. Then Thursday explains that the local drug dealers are working under a protection racket run by senior police officers.

“Made the link back to DS Jago yet?” asks Thursday to be met with a shake of the head from Morse. “You will. He’s behind all this. If you can just discredit Deare, you’ll expose the rest of the scum, believe you me.”

“I’ll look into it,” says Morse thoughtfully.

“You’d better get on with it, you great long streak of piss! Get these fuckers off the street and banged up. Don’t just sit there thinking great thoughts, Morse, fuck off out of here and do something useful for a change.”

Dismissed, Morse and Thursday regroup next to the car.

“His bark is worse than his bite,” Morse says sheepishly.

“No need to apologise for him, Morse. Doctor DeBryn’s one of the best minds in Oxford. You’ll need him if you’re to tackle this drugs scene effectively.”

“I’m beginning to wonder what I’ve taken on,” sighs Morse. “And whether this is all too much for one man.”

“But you’re not are you? One man I mean. You’ve allies if you call on them. You’ll need them. And I can help, you know, see you right. Seems I know things you haven’t found out yet.”

Morse quirks an eyebrow.

“Cesspit, you say?”

And finally Thursday sees a faint smile on Morse’s face, the familiar trace of confidence in his own abilities. Morse is usually ten steps ahead of everyone else. This time Thursday can help him get there.


	12. Your Morse

After chasing around Oxford together, they have established two things. One is that Thursday is out of place here, having apparently died in the war which is why no one recognises him. They must find a way to get him back to where he came from. The other is that having heard Thursday’s detailed explanation of events yet to happen, Morse can now confidently build up a case to prosecute the law breaking senior police officers he so despises.

They reconvene to the pub for lunch to talk over what they have uncovered. Thursday insists Morse has another meal and contentedly watches Morse hoovering up a great pile of pie and chips.

“That’s better, eh, lad? Brought a bit of colour to your cheeks.”

Morse mops up the last of the gravy with a slice of bread and butter.

“He must be a good friend, your Morse?” he suggests shyly.

Thursday nods.

“Prickly bugger at the best of times,” he allows, “but has a brilliant mind. I’ve done what I can for him over the years and now he’s ready to make his own way. He’s a good detective, Inspector material, but a lousy copper.”

Morse considers this.

“Am I very like him?”

Thursday can only laugh in reply and nod.

“Well, I mean, you seem very fond of me already. And I’m not even your own Morse, am I?”

Thursday reaches out to squeeze Morse’s shoulder.

“You’re just like him. Too independent, won’t trust anyone else. Putting yourself at risk instead of asking for help.”

Thursday doesn’t add that he’s a considerably more worn, battered and alcoholic version of his favourite Detective Sergeant, but doesn’t want to discourage this Morse.

Morse ducks his head and slides a wide smile across his haggard face.

“Lucky him,” he says. “To have someone like you.”

As Morse turns his face up to look at him, Thursday’s tired heart lurches with pity. The lad before him is weary of fighting alone and Thursday resolves to give him as much help as he can. He would hate to think that this Morse might get so ground down that he could ever contemplate the same final act that somehow propelled Thursday himself into this living nightmare.

====

Thursday sits back to consider his situation while Morse is at the bar buying another round.

His brother Charlie has got into debt, lost the family business and might have to flee abroad. His Win has led an exhausted, lonely life since the war, widowed too young and without anyone to love her as she should be loved. Jim is corrupt, Jakes is on the game, Bright a wreck, DeBryn very nearly a broken man…all of them struggling without support. It’s Fred who could have provided them the help they needed and he has learned a bitter lesson that he should never have contemplated taking his own life. Thursday now is desperate to get back to where he came from to start to make amends to each and every one of them for failing to do the very best he could for them. 

His own Morse has given up on Fred and is striking out on his own, oblivious to the danger he puts himself in. Thursday resolves to put things right between them so he can at least protect him from the worst of it. After Win, Morse will be the next to benefit from the new, improved Fred that he is determined to become.

But then this Morse needs his help as well. He has almost run himself into the ground in his fight for justice and is near exhaustion.   
  


From out of nowhere, Clarence turns up and sits down beside him, agitated and obviously in a hurry.

“What’s this?” asks Thursday. “Checking up on me?”

“No, no, no need for that. It’s just that you’ve had your time here and seen what you needed to see and now I need to get you home.”

“You mean I’ve learned my lesson? Seen how all these poor sods are struggling without me to lend a helping?” Thursday counters bitterly.

“Well, yes, that’s right. You’ve learned your lesson surely, that wishing yourself away really won’t help the ones you love? I’m sorry it’s been hard on you but surely you can see now how much they all need you?”

Before Thursday can reply, Morse returns unexpectedly promptly with two pints.

“Oh, who’s this, Sir?” he asks.

Clarence reels back in surprise.

“What? You can see me?”

“Yes,” Morse replies sarcastically. “Obviously.”

“Clarence. I’m Clarence.”

“Oh,” says Morse, sitting down and sipping his beer. “The angel?”

Thursday and Clarence exchange confused looks.

“But you’re not meant to be able to see me,” protests Clarence.

“White male, sixty-ish, full head of white hair, blue eyes, very blue eyes in fact. I can see you alright. What are you doing here?”

Thursday answers for him since Clarence is starting to get flustered.

“He’s here to take me home, lad.”

Morse’s face falls, clearly distraught that his new mentor is leaving all too soon. Morse has become deeply attached to this decent and grateful for the affection he has should him. He has also proved to be a mine of information about drugs on the streets of Oxford and how to fight back against the forces that are supplying them. With Thursday by his side he knows that fight will be so much more effective; without him he realises it will be a dangerous gamble. Besides he has grown fond of this wise and generous copper who has so quickly become his only real friend.

Morse is too fundamentally decent, however, to put this additional burden on Thursday and attempts a brave face.

“Well, good luck then, been nice knowing you, Sir,” he toasts Thursday facetiously with his pint.

Thursday swings his gaze from Morse to Clarence and back again, indecisive for once.

“Come on, you’ve seen enough. It’s time to go.” Clarence pulls at Thursday in agitation but Thursday remains seated, thinking about it.

“So I was meant to see what would happen if I’d got my wish, eh? If I’d never come home from the war?”

“Yes and you’ve seen what a mess people have got themselves into without you. Your brother, your wife, your…” Clarence waves a hand dismissively at Morse. “And now you can go back to your own life.”

“Only this time without wanting to shoot myself!”

“Shoot yourself!” exclaims Morse.

Thursday sighs.

“I was in a bad way. Thought there was nothing left to live for.”

Unexpectedly Morse shoots out his hand and grips Thursday’s.

“But you mustn’t do that! Don’t even think about it! I mean look how much you’ve helped me, in what, less than a day?”

“Now, Fred, we’ve got to go,” Clarence urges again but Thursday ignores him, clasping Morse’s hand and listening to his lad. He reaches out his free hand and tenderly pats Morse on the cheek.

He thinks with great regret of the wife he’s let down, the kids who no longer turn to him, the job that’s worn him out, the protégé who’s outgrown him, and his own disastrous failings, allowing bribes and dishonesty to stain his very soul. He shakes his head. There’s people back there need him, that’s true enough, but there’s one here needs him more.

“You need help, lad, and I can give it,” Thursday says softly. Then without turning to Clarence he says over his shoulder, “I’m not going back, Clarence. I’m needed here.”

Aghast, Clarence starts to babble, “No, Fred, that’s not allowed. You’ve been here long enough. You have to go home. You can’t stay here. Oh, my, I’m going to get in so much trouble if I don’t get you back.”

It is Morse who rallies first.

“You’ve got to go back, Sir. You’ve got a wife and children and colleagues and everything. Don’t give it all up, not for me.”

Thursday is torn. If he goes home he can try to put things right now he has seen just how badly things could go wrong without him. He’s learned a harsh lesson and won’t ever again contemplate ending it all. It’ll be hard work but there’s Win and Joan and Sam to win back and they’re worth fighting for.

But if he goes with Clarence then what’ll happen to Morse, this Morse? The lad needs help to get through one day at a time never mind a full out assault on the evil he’s battling. Besides, he’s grown over fond of the lad with his brilliance and determination and integrity despite the odds being stacked so high against him.

Morse sees Thursday’s dilemma in a flash. Selfishly he wants Thursday to stay right here with him since he’s given him such insight and motivation but knows that wouldn’t be fair on the older man who’s got his own life to live. If Thursday stays he would be a great help to everyone around him, but at huge personal cost to himself. To be trapped in a very much worse version of his own life and spend the rest of it trying to put things right, well, that would be just soul destroying. Morse cannot let his friend destroy himself like that.

Morse tries to sound convincing as he says,”Look, Sir, you need to get back to your world and put things right there. They need you. You’d better go with Clarence.”

“But, lad, what about you? I can’t just leave you like this.”

“I’ll be fine! And besides,” Morse adds with sly persuasion, “if this is all just a set up arranged by Clarence to teach you a lesson, then I won’t be here once you leave will I? This will all just disappear.”

Morse is not sure if this is true and cannot fathom whether he’s just wiped out his own existence once Thursday leaves him. But he knows that Thursday is way too decent to be made to struggle through this sordid version of his own world, which would leave him disappointed and heartbroken for the rest of his life here.

Forcing the decision, Morse stands and puts out his hand. Thursday, distressed at the choices before him, objects.

“Handshakes are for goodbye, Morse!”

“And this is goodbye. Well, until you meet your real Morse again,” he tries to lighten the mood.

Thursday stands too and shakes his hand. He folds Morse into a hug with an arm around his skinny shoulders, still holding his hand.

“Goodbye, lad. Take care of yourself.”

“Goodbye, Sir, Fred. And thanks for everything.”

As Thursday lets go of Morse he squeezes his shoulder. Morse releases his hand and stands back to smile bravely at his friend.

It’s the last Thursday sees of him because when he turns to ask Clarence what will happen next, it’s already happened. Clarence has grabbed his empty hand and pulled him back into his own world. In that instant, Thursday is no longer in the pub with Morse and Clarence, but is standing in his shed with the loaded revolver on the bench in front of him.


	13. My Morse

With a jolt Thursday realises he’s home but there’s no sign of Clarence. And he’s been given a second chance in this life to try harder, to do better, to support those who need him and to love those who’ll let him.

Clarence, his Guardian Angel, had dragged him off to some nightmare world where everything was familiar but no one knew him. Time after time, Thursday saw what might have happened to those he cared for if he hadn’t been around to help them. Deeply regretting his stupidity at wishing he’d not come home from the war, Thursday is hugely relieved to find he’s back in his own life again. He can put right most of what he’s done wrong and where he can’t fix what he’s broken then he can finally say he’s sorry.

Thursday understands the lesson he’s been taught and in the depth of his heart is thankful that he has been shown how to live a better life.

With shaking hands, Thursday unloads the gun that he’d made ready to blow his own brains out and puts it back in its locked box. He’s chosen to live, to put things right if he can. He has that other Morse to thank for being back home again and yet he misses the poor lad already.

Composing himself, he steps out of the shed into the garden to gaze at the glorious sky, an early morning picture of beauty. He’s delighted to find himself alive and well and back home, his real home. He decides the first thing he’s going to do is to ring Win and apologise, to beg her to come home so he can try to make it up to her. It was worth that unsettling experience with Clarence to realise just how lucky he is and how much he loves his wife.

Must be around eight in the morning, Thursday thinks, curious to find he’s lost a couple of hours. May as well get myself washed and changed and face the day.

As he walks to the house, the back door crashes open and Morse bursts out clutching a paper in his hand.

“No, no, don’t do it, Sir!” yells Morse and launches himself at Thursday, wrapping his arms around Thursday’s broad frame.

“Morse, my Morse,” cries Thursday, delighted to see it’s his own true lad. He braces himself against the impact and pats Morse on the back, bemused at these hysterics, so unlike Morse.

“I thought I was too late!”

“Alright, lad, it’s alright,” Thursday chuckles.

Morse pushes himself back, holding firmly onto Thursday. He is pale and shaking, shocked to his marrow.

“But, you…, Sir, you’re not…”

“I’m fine, Morse, just fine,” Thursday laughs gently. “Now what’s all this?”

Shakily, Morse shows him the note Thursday left on the mantelpiece, telling Morse to look for his dead body in the shed.

“Aah!” says Thursday more sombrely. He had forgotten all about the note he’d left for Morse to find. “Sorry, lad, my mistake. Nothing to worry about.”

He takes the note off Morse and trousers it.

“You’re not…you’re not …”

“Thinking of killing myself?” Thursday finishes quietly. “No, lad, no. Came to my senses, just in time. Got a glimpse of how different things could be.”

He squeezes Morse who drops his head to Thursday’s shoulder with a huge sigh of relief and lets his governor embrace him for a moment.

“So you’re really not…going to go through with this?” he says into the side of Thursday’s thick neck.

Thursday is adamant he’s decided to stick around and try to amend for the mistakes he’s made although it takes a while for him to persuade Morse to calm down. Sheepishly, Morse pushes himself away from Thursday’s warm embrace and shakes himself down, pretending that his show of affection never happened. He is embarrassed at making a show of himself, although Thursday is his usual imperturbable self.

“What made you change your mind?” Morse asks at last.

“You did, lad, you did,” smiles Thursday. “Now come on back to the house. Let’s get you some breakfast while I get shaved and dressed. You’ve had a nasty shock. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you like that.”

He knows he is home, for this really and truly is Morse, his own Morse. Over emotional for once, Morse is not his usual composed self but nevertheless Thursday can see it’s him alright. The earnest, devoted Morse he has grown so fond of. He feels all the more protective of his lad now, having seen the drunken, neglected mess that Morse night have got himself into without Thursday to put him straight.

That’s not to say Fred couldn’t do more for this lad. He promises himself there and then that in future there’s won’t be anything Morse might want for from him, a friendly word, a guiding mentor or a warm hug if that’s what he needs. Morse doesn’t speak out about his own needs so Fred will just have to listen better, learn when to step in and when to hold back, be a better father to the boy.

And just as he determines to stand taller for Morse, he understands that he, Fred Thursday, cannot fall by the wayside either or that would undermine Morse and all he stands for. Thursday will have to work hard to put up a more determined fight against forces trying to drag him off course. No excuses, no slip ups, he must be well and truly incorruptible from now on.

Morse, his curly haired conscience, will be a constant reminder that he must always, always fight the good fight.

Thursday leads Morse back to the house, back to the world he knows, back to his own dear life.

Delighted with the prospect of having the rest of his life before him, Thursday is in a tremendously good mood. He has nothing but hope in his heart which is full to bursting. He has a chance now to make a go of living a better life, determined to build a reconciliation with his wife and family, to keep to the path of the righteous in policing.

This time and for the rest of his life he vows he will stay firmly on the side of the angels.


End file.
